tighter this time. It was no use. Her twin would have to find a way to save them both.
Brianna paced to a window of the college’s admin building and stared out at the pathways cut through well-manicured lawns. The windows in the stone building were small, reminiscent of a medieval monastery, but they allowed her a sweeping view of the campus grounds. How she would have loved to recognize Zoe or Chloe among the handful of students and faculty crossing the campus, heading off to a dorm or summer session classes. Behind her, Selma sat silently. Waiting and waiting to meet with the dean of students. After a tough morning spent searching this campus, they were more frustrated than ever.
They had fast-talked and finagled their way into the twins’ rooms, appealing to a very annoyed-looking resident assistant who’d been taking advantage of the summer break to catch up with her shows on a laptop at the reception desk. Zoe’s room had been unremarkable, with clothes strewn over the twin beds, books scattered, posters of sunsets and pop stars pinned to the walls. Chloe’s room had been more of the same, though a bit tidier.
Distraught to find another empty room, Selma had collapsed on Chloe’s bed and buried her face in the pillow before Brianna had been able to stop her. “We can’t disturb anything,” she’d reminded the twins’ mother. “You know, just in case . . .”
“The police investigate.”
“Yes, I just thought we needed to check their rooms, but . . . let’s move on. ”
Selma had stiffened. “I told you they weren’t hiding from me or sleeping it off or whatever.”
“Right. I know. I’m sorry.” Though contrite, Brianna had known it was no time to deal with Selma’s overly raw emotions. “Come on.”
They’d stopped at a McDonald’s near campus for lunch, but Selma had picked at her Big Mac, barely touching it in favor of a Diet Coke and cigarette. Afterward, they had talked to a few of the girls’ friends who lived nearby and confirmed that their last contact with Zoe or Chloe had been around nine in the evening.
“I thought they were going to meet us at the Watering Hole,” Annie Rolands had told them. “I mean, it’s our place. All the students kick it there.” A petite brunette in frayed denim shorts and a tight sleeveless T-shirt, Annie had come out on the porch of her apartment, blingy cell phone in hand. “I was, like, ‘Come on, let’s go to the Watering Hole now,’ and they were, like, ‘No way, we want to party on Bourbon Street,’ and I was, like, ‘Whatever.’ I thought they’d show up at the Hole after a bit, but no.” She shrugged, checked the phone’s screen. “But they’re okay, right?”
“We hope so,” Brianna had said, and Annie had promised to text everyone she could think of to locate the girls.
“Social media, too,” Brianna had instructed. “Facebook, or whatever it is you guys connect on.”
“Sure.” Annie had bobbed her head. “I’m all over it.”
Once they were back in the car, Selma had confided: “I don’t think I can trust her to find the twins.”
“It’s a start,” Brianna had assured her. “It’s good to put the word out with someone tied in to their social network.”
Now, at last, the dean of students appeared in the reception area, his hands clamped to his chest, as if in prayer.
“I apologize,” he said with the barest hint of a brogue hinting at his Irish roots. “Summer is our season of retreats, and that keeps me busy. But come in, come in.” A fortysomething priest dressed in black slacks and shirt and a stark white clerical collar, Father Crispin was friendly, though harried, as he guided them up a curved staircase and into an office with tracery windows, coved ceiling, and a carved bookcase filled with well-worn tomes. Checking his watch, he waved Selma and Brianna into side chairs before taking his seat at the massive table serving as his desk.
“Now, then, what can I do for
Brianna paced to a window of the college’s admin building and stared out at the pathways cut through well-manicured lawns. The windows in the stone building were small, reminiscent of a medieval monastery, but they allowed her a sweeping view of the campus grounds. How she would have loved to recognize Zoe or Chloe among the handful of students and faculty crossing the campus, heading off to a dorm or summer session classes. Behind her, Selma sat silently. Waiting and waiting to meet with the dean of students. After a tough morning spent searching this campus, they were more frustrated than ever.
They had fast-talked and finagled their way into the twins’ rooms, appealing to a very annoyed-looking resident assistant who’d been taking advantage of the summer break to catch up with her shows on a laptop at the reception desk. Zoe’s room had been unremarkable, with clothes strewn over the twin beds, books scattered, posters of sunsets and pop stars pinned to the walls. Chloe’s room had been more of the same, though a bit tidier.
Distraught to find another empty room, Selma had collapsed on Chloe’s bed and buried her face in the pillow before Brianna had been able to stop her. “We can’t disturb anything,” she’d reminded the twins’ mother. “You know, just in case . . .”
“The police investigate.”
“Yes, I just thought we needed to check their rooms, but . . . let’s move on. ”
Selma had stiffened. “I told you they weren’t hiding from me or sleeping it off or whatever.”
“Right. I know. I’m sorry.” Though contrite, Brianna had known it was no time to deal with Selma’s overly raw emotions. “Come on.”
They’d stopped at a McDonald’s near campus for lunch, but Selma had picked at her Big Mac, barely touching it in favor of a Diet Coke and cigarette. Afterward, they had talked to a few of the girls’ friends who lived nearby and confirmed that their last contact with Zoe or Chloe had been around nine in the evening.
“I thought they were going to meet us at the Watering Hole,” Annie Rolands had told them. “I mean, it’s our place. All the students kick it there.” A petite brunette in frayed denim shorts and a tight sleeveless T-shirt, Annie had come out on the porch of her apartment, blingy cell phone in hand. “I was, like, ‘Come on, let’s go to the Watering Hole now,’ and they were, like, ‘No way, we want to party on Bourbon Street,’ and I was, like, ‘Whatever.’ I thought they’d show up at the Hole after a bit, but no.” She shrugged, checked the phone’s screen. “But they’re okay, right?”
“We hope so,” Brianna had said, and Annie had promised to text everyone she could think of to locate the girls.
“Social media, too,” Brianna had instructed. “Facebook, or whatever it is you guys connect on.”
“Sure.” Annie had bobbed her head. “I’m all over it.”
Once they were back in the car, Selma had confided: “I don’t think I can trust her to find the twins.”
“It’s a start,” Brianna had assured her. “It’s good to put the word out with someone tied in to their social network.”
Now, at last, the dean of students appeared in the reception area, his hands clamped to his chest, as if in prayer.
“I apologize,” he said with the barest hint of a brogue hinting at his Irish roots. “Summer is our season of retreats, and that keeps me busy. But come in, come in.” A fortysomething priest dressed in black slacks and shirt and a stark white clerical collar, Father Crispin was friendly, though harried, as he guided them up a curved staircase and into an office with tracery windows, coved ceiling, and a carved bookcase filled with well-worn tomes. Checking his watch, he waved Selma and Brianna into side chairs before taking his seat at the massive table serving as his desk.
“Now, then, what can I do for
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